Daddy's Boy, Teacher's Pet
by avengejohnlock
Summary: Ignore my porny title. I mean, this is supposed to be somewhat deep. Kurt is a new student at Dalton Achademy's Boarding School for Boys, and has never had a stable figure in his life to love him. His english teacher has never had someone to love.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is something I've been working on for a while, since I first read some of KeriLin's stuff over on Tumblr, which I cannot work very effectively, btw.**

**This has a student/teacher relationship that eventually becomes a baby/daddy relationship as well. I'll warn for specific chapters whatever comes up, but be aware that there will be explicit sex and some depressing themes.**

* * *

He was four when his parents died, five when he got put with the McMichaels. They made him give away the Barbie Mommy gave him.

At age six, he got sent to a well-appreciated foster family. They were fundamentalist Southern Baptists. He had bruises all over his bottom and legs for days after he said Prince Eric was the most handsome man in the world.

He was seven when the Jacksons' got him. They had been nice, but then the economy really started going south and they couldn't afford to take care of kids that weren't their own. He remembers the mother crying when he had to leave. The father had even hugged him.

When he turned eight, an elderly couple offered to take him in. They weren't particularly fond of children, but they let him play with his Power Rangers his father had given him however he wanted, so long as he didn't talk while doing it and stayed in his room.

He was a very fashion-forward nine year old. Mr. Granger had made him play baseball and football. He used to have to play outside as soon as his homework was done, until dinner. Sometimes they locked the doors so he couldn't sneak back in during the day on the weekend. He was sunburnt a lot, but he was at least acting more like a boy, and that was what counted, right?

Ten years. He'd been alive for only ten years when his new brother had called him a fag. He'd been ten years and nine months when the bigger boy had tried to cut it into his arm.

Mr. Ryerson got him when he was eleven. After that, nobody wanted him.

Kurt rolled his eyes as he looked over his own file from the adoption agency. (Which he may or may not actually have stolen, but there is no way he's going to some new boarding school out in the middle of nowhere without knowing what the people there knew about him.) So what if nobody wanted him? Fuck them. He'd go to school, he'd do well, and he'd take care of himself. He'd be on Broadway, or perhaps design. He'd be one of those upper-class New Yorkers, the kind that are the centers of movies about having to choose between a jerky rich man and the cute firefighter. He'd like to think he'd be the kind of guy to choose the firefighter, but who knows? He's got two years before he's out of Dalton, and he knows from experience that two years can change a person until they're almost unrecognizable.

No matter what though, no matter who he ended up being or what he ended up doing, he'd get himself somewhere. He'd make sure he was taken care of.

Someone had to, after all.

* * *

He hadn't really wanted to be a teacher, but well, not too many people do. Lots of people become them, but it's very seldom that it's someone's first choice of profession. He'd wanted to be a football player when he was little. Everyone he knew then and most everyone he knows now look up to some player or another. He ended up being a bit small for the sport, small to the point that even kicker was a bit of a stretch.

After that it had been all about music. He forced himself to learn several instruments (He only really cared for the piano, but he had figured it would be best to be well-rounded.), practiced every day, and made sure he starred in anything and everything he could put on a college application that would prove he belonged in the spotlight.

Only it turned out that his father wasn't too keen on that idea. He'd figured he'd just ignore it (despite his father not keeping his opinion even remotely concealed), but then his mother had gotten sick and, well, he really didn't want to add to her stress.

So he became a teacher. It wasn't that bad, not really. He got to feel in charge for once, and he's pretty sure he'll end up with complete control over the musicals, spring and fall. (Mostly because none of the other teachers at Dalton particularly cared for theatre, and a little bit because he put in his request for the position three months early.) The best part though was unconventional, to say the least.

Kurt Hummel, angel in his own right. He was different then the other boys. He didn't keep an extra pencil in his wallet just so he'd have an excuse to flash bills and condoms. He didn't raise his hand aggressively to try and one-up everyone in the class. He didn't argue every point to try and best the teacher, and he didn't have a smarmy smirk when he turned in his assignments, like he just knew he'd get an A because of who his parents are. No, Kurt was different. Better.

Perfect.

Blaine had only had to reprimand him once in the three weeks he's been here.

Well, he didn't have to, but he was curious to see if he'd be indignant, or try to weasel his way out. Actually, he should probably apologize for that. Kurt had only shown up without his pen. It's not like the boy tried to hit on him.

He doubts he would have had a very sensible response to that either.

The reprimand wasn't overly rude. He'd just firmly stated that Kurt needed to pay more attention when he prepared for class, and that he expected more of him in the future, because how else did the boy plan on securing a future at all?

Kurt's face was stony, but his eyes had gleamed a bit when Blaine spoke of his future, however brief the comment had been. He hoped he hadn't upset him by singling him out (Oblivious as he can often be, he knows that anyone without brand new shoes is set to be looked down upon in a school like this.), but it feels like his eyes got that slight mist for some other reason he couldn't place.

He doesn't really know, maybe he was just embarrassed. He wants to be able to know, though, to be able to take one look at Kurt's face and know what's going on inside that mind.

It's a good mind, too, almost depressingly cynical, but borderline brilliant all the same. He has to be cynical and brilliant, because every essay, _every_ paper is exactly the opposite of the take everyone else has on the subject, and it's presented nearly perfectly.

Blaine's relatively sure he does it on purpose. It's like he refuses to be another carbon copy Dalton boy. He respects that. He wants to know that.

So he will. He was a Dalton boy once-one of the most respectable-and he's accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. The bell rings and he shuffles papers, stealing a quick glance at Kurt, furiously trying to jot down whatever thought he was having quickly enough to make sure he didn't end up at the end of the lunch line.

"Mr. Hummel, stay after please." He continues to shuffle through random papers, pretending he isn't watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye. Pretending doesn't make it true, though, and he frowns a bit when he notices how stiff Kurt gets. He shouldn't feel nervous. (Or perhaps he should. His teacher had just asked him to stay after for no apparent reason, to be fair.)

"Is there a problem? Sir?"

Blaine looks up at him for a moment. Then he stands himself, and grabs a nearby chair, dragging it to the side of his desk.

"Please take a seat."

Kurt does so, and Blaine smiles down at him. He likes this better. It makes Kurt look little, more vulnerable.

He briefly acknowledges that he shouldn't think like that.

"Am I in trouble?"

Blaine thinks it's supposed to be snarky, but it sounds more nervous. Even Kurt realizes.

"No," he answers honestly. He's being creepy, he knows he is, but Kurt's just right there, looking so sweet-

"Then why am I still here?"

"That's no way to talk to a teacher, Kurt," he frowns. "I know that some of these boys can't understand the concept of respect, but you do."

The boy blushes, ducking his head.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Blaine answers quickly, because honestly, Kurt's not the one being inappropriate. "I was just concerned," he licks his lips, because they suddenly seem so dry, "about your grades."

Kurt looks up at him, his eyes cold.

"I have a ninety-six in here. Isn't that good enough?"

His tone is harsh and guarded. Blaine wants to hold him until those walls crumble and this boy feels comfortable enough to get off the offensive.

"Kurt," he says softly, "You're my top student." The boy looks up at him, surprised and more than a bit curious.

"Really?"

It's another one of those statements that's supposed to be confident and biting, but comes out hopeful. Kurt's mask is back up in a split-second, him raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his seat to appear more indifferent. Blaine smiles at him anyway, because he saw.

"You, Kurt Hummel, are one of the brightest boys with the most potential that's come through this school in a while. You're at the top of my class because you deserve to be. But I grade fair, and your other teachers, well….." he trails off, looking closely to see if Kurt gets it.

"They aren't like you."

He smiles at Kurt, watches him get angry.

"It's a hierarchy here at Dalton, Kurt. You have to have connections to get anywhere."

Kurt looks up at him with a tired exasperation mixed with some traces of disbelief, small slivers of hope he hadn't wanted to have shattering.

"I don't have anyone, Mr. Anderson," he says angrily. "What do you expect me to do, exactly?"

Blaine puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. It feels so right to touch him.

"Meet me here after school every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I'll tutor you." He squeezes the boy's shoulder, nodding. "I can get you through this."

For the first time ever, Blaine sees his student give a genuine smile.

* * *

**AN: Tell me what you think. Anon is on, since this might not be something you want your internet friends to know you're reading. I hope people like this, and don't flame just because you don't like the kink. (I don't know if people actually do that, but other people warn for it, so...yeah.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: This is not spellchecked, so I apologize if some words are way off. I tried, anyway.**

**Also, spoiler alert! If you'd like to come PM and rant with me over the fact that Glee is full of _bull,_ do feel free. I've gone to a constant state of so much anger that I'm calm. I am Bruce freaking Banner when it comes to this show.**

* * *

"And the capital of Hungary is…?"

"Budapest."

"Excellent, Kurt," Blaine says with no small amount of enthusiasm. "Now we just have to memorize Africa. It's the trickiest by far, but you've been breezing through Europe and Asia." He looks up, grinning. "I'm proud of you."

Kurt just smiles softly, but Blaine notices how the tips of his ears flush with the praise. It must be sad to never have anyone tell you how wonderful you are, especially if you deserve it as much as Kurt does.

"I just don't know why we're going over this anyway. Mr. Brolin hasn't mentioned anything about a test," Kurt mumbles, shuffling through his review papers. Blaine smiles sympathetically.

"Kurt, he sends out memos to his favorites about pop quizzes, so that they can be top of the class. The only way you can beat them is if I help you stay ahead."

Kurt freezes for a minute, shock etched on his face, but then he rolls his eyes.

"Of course he does. Is that even legal?"

Blaine shrugs.

"Probably not, but nobody could prove anything." He smirks at Kurt. "He won't be able to say anything if you nail it, either, now will he?"

Kurt smirks at the thought.

"No, I don't suppose he will."

* * *

Later, when Kurt's left and he's alone, Blaine lets himself really think. Kurt's been coming for three weeks, and he's becoming more open, less guarded. Just the other day he'd _laughed._

Blaine doesn't know how he's supposed to stay away.

Kurt's got a stone-cold shell, hardened from his time in foster care and years of walking around unloved.

_You could love him_, a voice whispers in his mind, and he tries to ignore it, but he can't.

Tutoring isn't enough. He'd thought it might help, to see Kurt a little more, to have him smile and to help him do his best. It isn't quelling anything like he'd hoped though, it just makes him want _more_. He wants to hold Kurt, love Kurt, kiss him everywhere.

He can't though, he just can't. It would be taking advantage of a broken little boy, for God's sake, not to mention how extremely illegal it is, and how much trouble they'd both get into. He slams his head down on his desk.

_Kurt._

He just can't.

* * *

When Kurt's twenty minutes late on the Monday of his fifth week of tutoring, Blaine is pissed. He's putting a lot on the line for this boy, risking his job and his morals by getting closer, helping him get through Dalton, and Kurt's just going to be tardy? He's happy to do it, but where's the graditude?

He ignores the thought that he's using anger to cover concern. The only reason that pops in his head is naturally due to his lunch conversation with that old bastard of a psychology teacher. He's not worried.

* * *

Kurt isn't exactly a stranger to violence, but he'd been holding out hope that things wouldn't turn physical at Dalton, with the boys too conerned about scuffing up their expensive Italian shoes to bother with him. Technically, he supposes, as he pulls himself out of one of Dalton's many scenic courtyard fountains, it's not like anyone touched him. They'd just all laughed when he'd been knocked off his perch on the edge of the fountain by a messenger bag he could only dream of having once he'd made it out in New York, and then laughed and jeered at him when he fell face-first trying to get out.

Whatever. It's not like he needed them.

It just would have been nice if they hadn't run into the building and locked all the doors surrounding the courtyard. Octobers in Ohio aren't the warmest, and being soaked in icy water and then left to dry in the goddamn snow isn't going to help him keep his health up. The teachers (with the exception of his French teacher and Mr. Anderson)already hate him enough without him missing any days, and he'd hate to have to deal with getting makeup work from them.

Mr. Anderson. He'd forgotten, since he'd been so preoccupied with freezing his ass off and knocking on doors. God, like it wasn't difficult enough dealing with all this bullshit, he'd gone and stood up the only man who gives a crap about him and his future.

He checks his phone for the time, squinting at the cracked go-phone screen to check the time.

He's thirty minutes late.

Which means he's been out here for at least fourty five minutes.

Which means the numbness in his hands and feet probably aren't just in his head.

He doesn't make a habit of crying (he thinks it's been about three years since he has outside of his room), but he can't help a few small tears from cascading down his face. It's not that he cares about the opinions of spoiled little Dalton boys, but he does envy their ability to do nothing and have a future secure. He doesn't have that, and now their stupid childish prank is going to make Mr. Anderson think he isn't punctual when really he's punctual as_ hell_ and if Mr. Anderson stops tutoring him then he'll lose everything, his chance to be top of the class and to one-up all the snots at Dalton, and his relationship with Mr. A will crumble and then he'll have nothing left and nobody to care about him...

He can't help but think how pathetic he is, even refrencing his schoolboy crush in his mind. Mr. Anderson is hot, yes, and he cares about him, but it's not like Kurt can care back. He's going to New York, and sentiment isn't going to get him there.

He sniffs, just a bit disgusted at himself. Crying is unbecoming, and here he is doing it out in the open where anyone passing a window could see him. It strikes him then, how many people must have seen him, and he feels a soreness deep in his troat, the kind he's accustomed to, the kind you get when you close off bad emotions.

Or maybe he's getting strep throat. It's not unlikely.

Once he gets out of his head, he realizes how cold he is, and it's _cold_. He hadn't realized he'd been shaking. Knocking on the door wasn't working too well, so maybe he should just conserve heat until a janitor comes along? He decides it couldn't hurt, so he goes over to the fountain, brushing off enough snow to have a seat, just as he'd done earlier. He was wet, freezing and alone. Earlier, he'd only been two of those things. He pulls his knees up and presses is face into them, rubbing his nose against the ugly gray slacks to try feel it.

After a few more minutes, he really can't feel a thing.

* * *

Blaine's grown beyond pissed; he's furious. Kurt's obviously not arriving, since he's over an hour late, and God, he'd thought the boy was better than this. Kurt was supposed to be his sweet little angel, shining and standing apart from the boring monotony of Dalton students, and yet the boy couldn't be bothered to even give notice that he wasn't available? It's ridiculous, he wouldn't have been terribly upset if Kurt just asked to reschedual.

He storms down the halls, determined to find this boy. He's not terribly sure what he thinks he'll do when he gets to Kurt, and somewhere in the back of his mind that worries him, because he always plans these things.

Nobody's ever made him feel as emotionally on edge as Kurt manages to, and he's only known him since late August.

He starts to get frustrated about halfway through his rampage through the empty halls. He should have learned which dorm Kurt was in before he went looking for him like an idiot. He finally stops wandering and, after making sure nobody is near before he presses his forhead against the freezing glass of one of the large windows throughout the school.

He sighs, letting his breath fog up the glass. He's so Goddamn stupid. Not only does he work himself up because some teenager doesn't show up to a more or less voluntary study session, but then he's innopropriate enough to freak out and look for a student. No wonder Kurt's avoiding him; he's probably scared him off by being overbearing. He can feel his head pound and tears build behind his eyes. He's supposed to be in control at all times, but everything lately's been falling around him. He's given up on his dreams, he has to watch his mother get worse and worse each time he visits, and the complete bullshit that is Dalton's teaching policy follows him everywhere. Kurt's turning out to be the straw that breaks the camel's back, though, because he's supposed to stay in control and make his way up Dalton's social ladder, but all he can focus on is a pale little boy who's been through too much to have a teacher befriend him just to stare like a horny old man.

He wants his control _back._

He takes a few deep breaths, stealing himself. If he can't keep his head clear, he's determined to at least not show is inner torment. Blinking, he opens his eyes to look out the window and calm himself at the sight of the landscape's snowy conformity.

All he sees is blue, staring back up at him pleadingly.

He's never run through the halls before now.

* * *

Kurt knows his head and feet and hands and everywhere hurt, but he can't feel it. He can't feel much of anything at the moment. He watches his breath puff out in little clouds, and a faint memory occurs to him.

_"Little Dragon," a deep voice says, chuckling. Kurt's lifted up into the air then and out of the snow, his tummy swooping at the motion before he's secured safely in a pair of huge arms, warm, safe and secure._

That's all he gets, a quick flash of a deep voice and a strong hug, or of a sweet song and a glossy kiss every now and then, triggered by the most random things. He wishes he could remember all of whatever memory that was from, but he knows better than to try. He'd spent countless hours when he was younger, trying to force himself to remember more of his parents, but all he ever got were fleeting little insights. It still frustrates him, sometimes, but at least he has the confidence that someone loved him, at some point.

The cold's getting to him. It's obvious, because he wouldn't be curled in on himself if it weren't. He just closes his eyes, opening them only when he's regained control. He's always in control, always has to be. It's not an option to let himself cry in public, because that gains nothing but more apathy, and if he even thought about growing attatched to someone they'd be taken away. He always has to own his emotions.

He hates it, so much.

He doesn't have the energy to sigh, but he does glance back up at the windows, hoping someone'll come along and take pity on him. He sees Mr. Anderson, and a small wave of relief washes over him. The man's eyes are closed, but he's got to open them at some time, and Kurt will be right in his line of vision. It takes a few minutes -a few terrifying minutes when he's sure he'll just walk away without seeing him, or worse _with_ seeing him- but then there's hazel staring at him, and suddenly Mr. A has a panicked look. His teacher shoves himself away from the window, and now Kurt has to wait and see if he'll come.

It takes less then five minutes for a door to open, even though Mr. A's come from the third floor.

He must have run.

* * *

It doesn't take him long to get to Kurt, but it feels like he took too much time. Kurt tries to get up, of course he does, but the boy can't seem to unclench his entire body.

So, Blaine picks him up. The boy's tall, but he's not exceptionally heavy under any stretch of the imagination. He takes him to his office.

His office isn't terribly huge, but it's got enough space for his desk, along with the cushiony couch amd coffe table he keeps in there, as well as a few bookshelves. Professors used to live on-campus, so he even has a decent sized bathroom. The first thing he does is turn the shower on lukewarm so he can shove in as soon as possible. He wants to turn it as hot as it will go, because Kurt is just so, so cold, but he doubts going from one extreme to the other is a bright idea.

Kurt's still curled in on himself, but he's moved his hands up to grab at Blaine's shirt. It scares him that Kurt can't uncurl his fingers enough to do more then press at him. He steps into the shower with Kurt in his arms, because he doubts the boy can support himself. He sits down on the shower floor, cradeling Kurt in his arms. They sit under the water for a few minutes in silence before Blaine feels the need to speak.

"Kurt, I...What happened?"

Kurt doesn't answer, but Blaine wasn't expecting him to, not really. He sighs, bringing his hands around Kurt's gloved ones and rubbing furiously. Kurt just snuggles into him, and Blaine feels so disgusting for it, but he smiles at the feeling. Or at least he knows he would, if it wasn't like having a block of ice rub against him. He tries to work on that, turning the heat up little by little as Kurt manages to unwind his legs and fingers. Blaine tries to remove his shoes, but Kurt's gotten ice inside them and they're frozen to his feet.

"Oh, Kurt," Blaine says softly, because there isn't much else he can say. He settles for hugging Kurt tight, bringing a hand up to cover one of Kurt's freezing ears, while he presses the boy's cheek gently against his own chest, leaning back until they're laying as best they can in the tub.

"Hurts," Kurt mumbles, and Blaine squeezes him tighter.

"Where does it hurt, your feet?" He knows he shouldn't have yanked at the shoes like that...

"Everywhere," Kurt whimpers, and he can feel his heart clench. Jesus, how long had Kurt been out there that he's like this? He can feel tears well again, because he'd been so irrationally angry at this boy while he was locked out in the cold for who knows how long, and now it's so surreal to be holding him and hearing him so vunerable without those careful walls up.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, holding Kurt to him and rubbing up and down his back. "It'll be okay. We just need to get you warmed up."

Kurt doesn't really respond to that, but he's teeth are chattering so hard Blaine can year them. It's better he's shaking then being completly still. Blaine grapples around until he finds the plug for the tub, pushing it in and hoping that surrounding Kurt's feet in warm water will thaw them.

He doesn't know how long it takes (too long, much too long), but eventually Kurt stops shaking and the boots pull off. Blaine removes his school blazer as well, frowning at how thin it is. He must only have the summer one. He hesitates to take anything else off, but certainly the boy needs to change. Sleeping in wet clothes won't help anything.

He's being reponsible.

So he unbuttons Kurt's long-sleeved shirt and pulls it off his shoulders and down his long arms, fighting with it's water-logged cling and Kurt's overall refusal to move from his semi-curled state. Blaine sighs when there's an undershirt, but he manages to get that off too. He slips Kurt's pants and underwear off at once, not trying to peek, but he can't really work without looking. He's not too sure if Kurt's always that pale or if it's the cold, but disregaurding his feet and hands, his body is mostly the same, non-dangerous looking colour.

Worried as he is, he still notes that Kurt is beautiful.

It takes him a bit to get Kurt into a few layers of clothes and under the covers, but Kurt's gotten to a point where he can stand and help dress himself.

He watches carefully as Kurt snuggles deeper into the cocoon Blaine had helped him make from a pile of blankets, smiling a little at Kurt's tiny yawn. He waits until he's sure the boy is asleep, before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

"It'll be okay," he murmurs.

Somehow, probably coincidentally, Kurt smiles in his sleep at that precise moment.

* * *

**AN: Second chapter, yay! I'm sorry this took a bit, finals and the like. On the off chance that you care, I'll hopefully get to one of my other stories this weekend.**


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